Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) (8 page)

Chapter 10

I’d let Frances know that I’d be a little late arriving at work Monday morning. Hillary had impressed on me—multiple times—that the blueprints Frederick had borrowed from the historical society needed to be returned as soon as possible. I decided to drop them off on my way to work.

I set out for my quick stop at the society’s offices in town, thinking about everything that had transpired over the weekend. Last night at home with my roommates, we’d opened a chilled bottle of rosé and simply talked the night away. That quiet respite, being able to relax with two of my closest friends, had turned out to be the relief I’d needed from the stress of managing the Marshfield party and the double heart attacks that had claimed one victim and threatened another.

Scott, Bruce, and I had gone over the blueprint plans closely, trying our best to glean whatever information we could about the house we lived in. We’d found it fun to think about what life had been like more than a hundred years earlier. I didn’t have paperwork to tell me when the first shovelful of dirt had been turned over when the house was built, but there was no doubt the home had survived a great deal of history. Oh, the stories it could tell.

The three of us had also decided to take another look at the workbench in the basement and had agreed that the wobbly built-in should go. Better to take it out on our timeline than to wait for it to collapse on its own.

I arrived at the historical society’s office moments after it opened for the day. Opening the front door wide, I could smell history the moment I stepped in: musty, and familiar. I took a deep breath and savored it. Although I’d returned to Emberstowne to live more than a year ago, I hadn’t spent any time here yet. I knew the society existed, but I had so much of historical significance to sort through at Marshfield before I even began to explore the rest of the town, that I hadn’t paid this place proper attention.

The room’s ceilings were high. Bookshelves, crammed tight with leather-bound volumes in shades of navy, black, and the occasional faded red, beckoned to be perused. The narrow storefront doorway gave the illusion of the space being tiny and cramped, but walls within had been knocked down between the original store and the adjacent buildings that flanked it, making for a wide, spacious area. There were glass display cases showcasing artifacts that had been collected over the years.

A shiny oak counter stretched along the length of the wall to my left. “Good morning,” I said to the man behind it. The dark wooden floor creaked as I made my way in, and the man behind the counter came around to greet me.

A head taller than I was, he was probably a couple of years older than Adam and good-looking, but with a noticeable paunch. He wore 1970s-style glasses, a plaid flannel shirt open over a solid gray tee, and stonewashed blue jeans. With his trim beard and full head of hair—both of which sported a slight touch of gray—he looked like Central Casting’s ideal choice for “handsome nerd.”

He leaned to look out the front windows, peering up at the sky before answering. “It is,” he said, then returned his attention to me. “Let me guess. You must be Grace Wheaton.”

“I am,” I said. “And you are?”

“Wes McIntyre. I’m the historian in residence.” He extended his hand, causing me to shift the rolls to my other arm so we could shake.

“In residence?” I asked. “You don’t really live here, do you?”

“Not in the office, although it sure feels like it sometimes. I live in the apartment above. One of the perks of the job.” As we stepped back into our own spaces, he added, “Very pleased to meet the woman who everyone in town is talking about.”

“Me?” I asked with a self-conscious laugh. “Why on earth would anyone be talking about me?”

“You’ve earned quite a reputation for yourself,” he said.

I waved my free hand dismissively.

“I’m not kidding,” he said with an infectious grin. “Did you really take down a thief with an antique sword? Singlehandedly?”

I couldn’t resist. “No way,” I said. “That sword was heavy. I used two hands.”

His eyes sparkled. “I’d love to hear more about that someday.”

“I’m sure the tale has grown with the telling and the truth would be a disappointment,” I said, eager to change the subject. It always surprised me to find out when my exploits were the topic of conversation among people I’d never even met.

He must have sensed my discomposure because he pointed. “A big hint as to who you are is the fact that you’re carrying those blueprints. I signed out three sets last week.” He counted aloud as he tapped the tops of the rolls I carried. “One, two, three. The gentleman—Frederick—who picked them up, explained all about your renovation plans.” He pointed again. “Let me take those from you.”

Happy to be unburdened, I handed the blueprints over. “We really enjoyed going over those drawings. I didn’t even realize you kept those sorts of records here.”

His eyes crinkled up and he cast a loving gaze around the room. “There is so much here to discover. I wish more of our citizens would take better advantage of all we have to offer.”

“I’m one of those guilty of not visiting before now,” I said. “If it weren’t for Hillary and Frederick, I probably wouldn’t even be here today.” A framed picture on the wall caught my attention. “This is a great shot of the Promise Clock,” I said. Peering closer, I noticed the photographer’s name. “David Cherk’s work?”

“Most of the modern shots on display are his,” Wes said. “We hire him from time to time for specific projects, but he also donates whatever doesn’t sell.”

“That’s nice of him.”

One corner of Wes’s mouth twisted up. “I get the feeling he’s more interested in tax deductions than philanthropy.” He carried the blueprints around to the other side of the counter. “He told me about what happened at the benefit. That had to be horrible.”

“Already? When was he here?”

Wes scratched the side of his head. “Stopped by yesterday afternoon to drop off a whole stack of donations. The one of the clock seemed to fit that space so I hung it up last night. I haven’t had time to put any of the others up yet.”

Behind the long oak counter was a wall of wide, short drawers. Wes opened one of them and gestured for me to come around. “Here’s where we keep your house’s plans,” he said as I joined him.

The drawer was filled with other sets of plans, which I asked about.

He lifted one corner of the pile and riffled through. “Your neighbors. We don’t have floor plans or original blueprints for every home in Emberstowne, but we have quite a few. They’re filed here according to address.”

“Can anyone take them out? Like at a library?”

He made a so-so expression. “We discourage people removing items from the premises, because not everyone is diligent about returning them.” Closing the drawer again, he smiled. “But as you can tell, we do make exceptions.”

“I appreciate that. And because we were so prompt at returning them, will that help in the event we ever need to look at them again?”

“Anytime.”

I turned to make my way out along the back area, passing a desk that had been tucked into a nook behind the counter. A jar of clear liquid sat next to a framed photo of a thirty-something woman with dark hair and a winning smile. The glass container wasn’t labeled—it looked to me like a pickle or canning jar that had been repurposed—and it seemed out of place.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He peered around to see what I was pointing at. “That’s David’s. He left it here by accident yesterday when he dropped off the photographs.”

“What is it?”

Wes tapped the metal cap. “I have no idea, but I assume it’s chemicals. You know, he still prefers print over digital photography.”

“He mentioned that,” I said. “Several times.”

“He called to ask me if he’d left stuff here. He forgot this, too.” Wes picked up a taped-shut cardboard box and shook it. The top of the box read: P
ERSONAL AND
C
ONFIDENTIAL
. Whatever was inside rattled, sounding like hollow plastic balls bouncing against one another.

“That’s curious.”

Wes shrugged. “He didn’t mention what was inside, and with a sign like that scrawled across the top, I wasn’t about to look. Doesn’t matter; David said he’d be back today to pick it all up.”

I pointed to the framed photograph at the desk’s edge. “Is that your wife?”

Wes picked up the picture. “Lynn.”

“She’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” His mouth tightened briefly before he continued. “We would have been married fifteen years this December.”

“Would have?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize. You couldn’t have known. Lynn passed away well before I moved here.”

I was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “Was it an accident?”

“Aneurysm.” He put the photo back on the desk. “Never saw it coming. She’d been sick for a while, but we’d gotten through the worst of it. Thought we had all the time in the world. But fate had other plans.”

I struggled to find solid conversational footing. “Where did you live before moving here?”

“Seattle,” he said. “Lynn loved it there, but once she was gone, I couldn’t bear to stay. I looked around for whatever job would take me as far from Seattle as I could get.” He held out both hands. “That’s how I ended up here.”

Searching for something positive to add, I said, “We’re glad to have you.”

“Emberstowne has been good for my soul.” He took a long look around the room. “I’ll never stop missing Lynn, but here at least I’m starting to find peace.”

I took a look at the black-rimmed schoolhouse clock on the wall. “I ought to get going,” I said. “Thank you again for all your help.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Keep in mind that our files are open and if there’s ever anything you need, all you have to do is ask.”

*   *   *

When I got back to my office, I ran into Flynn, looking surly as usual.

“I told him you’d be here shortly,” Frances said with a frown of disapproval. She checked her watch. “But he was about to leave.”

Not looking at my assistant, Flynn said, “I don’t have all day. I’m not about to sit on my hands and wait for you when I have a potential homicide to solve.”

“Homicide,” I repeated. “Do you believe Dr. Keay was murdered?”

He looked like he was about to say, “Yes,” but thought better of it. “Now that you’re here, I can spare a couple more minutes.” He pointed. “Your office.”

“Please,” I said, allowing him to go first. Behind his back I sent Frances a wide-eyed “I wonder what this is about” look.

I didn’t shut the door between my office and Frances’s. Flynn didn’t complain.

“How’s Rodriguez?” I asked as I took a seat behind my desk. Flynn lowered himself into a chair across from me. The man fidgeted constantly and his gaze never seemed to rest on any location for more than a beat or two.

“He’s better. Specialists are taking a look at him today. Looks like he
will
need a new valve.”

I grimaced. “That’s a tough surgery,” I said. “Is he a good candidate?”

“Because he’s so overweight, you mean?” Flynn asked, dropping any pretense of being polite. “Doctors are worried about that. When I find out more I’ll let you know.”

I was about to ask about that “potential homicide” comment, but he didn’t wait for the opening. “I’m here to take another look at the scene,” he said. “You don’t need to accompany me or anything. After all the incidents you guys have had here, I can find my way around pretty well.”

Feeling prickly after his comment about past troubles at Marshfield, I said, “Thank you for making it clear that you aren’t asking permission or for company. But then why come talk to me at all? Is this a social visit?”

His gaze stopped bouncing and he shot a withering, arrow-straight look at me. “If that’s what you want to call it, be my guest. I came to let you in on some information. Information I am not
required
to share. Given the circumstances, I thought it best to keep you posted.”

“I’m sorry for being flip, then.” And I was. “Go ahead.”

He resettled himself in his chair, perching on its edge, and leaned forward. “You may or may not know that taking blood alcohol level readings on a dead body can be tricky.”

I’d heard as much, but let him continue without interrupting.

“Part of the decomposition process involves putrefaction,” he said as casually as if he were discussing what he intended to have for lunch. “Putrefaction can cause higher blood alcohol readings than are wholly correct. I mean, it depends on other considerations, like what the victim ate. That can factor into it. Readings might not always give you an accurate idea of how much liquor the victim consumed.”

“Putrefaction?” I said. “That takes a while, doesn’t it?”

He gave an emphatic nod. “Depends, again, on the circumstances. What’s important here is that the accuracy of a blood alcohol test diminishes the longer a person has been dead. Which is why I asked the coroner to take a reading Saturday night.”

“You did?”

“Everybody there claimed that Dr. Keay didn’t drink. They swore he never touched the sauce anymore. But you told me you smelled alcohol on him.”